"Quite so, sir," he said, and vanished. "My father," Lambert said, "is in the library--that first door. Wait. I'll see if he's alone." Painfully he limped to the door and opened it, while George waited, endeavouring not to pull at his cap. "Father," Lambert said, smoothly, "Mr. Morton is calling." A deep voice, muffled by distance, vibrated in the hall. "What are you talking about?" Lambert bowed profoundly. "Mr. Morton from the lodge." George stepped close to him. "Want me to thrash you again?" Lambert faced him without panic. "I don't admit that you could, but, my dear--George, I'm too fatigued to-night to find out. Some day, if the occasion should arise, I hope I may. I do sincerely." He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held no mockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as she passed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In her George saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever Old Planter might be this woman had something from the past, not to be acquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It made the future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping, cultured and unaffected. "Mr. Planter is alone, Morton. He would like to see you." She disappeared in a room opposite. George took a deep breath. "On that threshold," Lambert said, kindly, "I've often felt the same way, though I've never deserved it as you do." George plunged through and closed the door. The room was vaster than the hall, and darker, impressing him confusedly with endless, filled book-shelves; with sculpture; with a difficult maze of furniture. The only light issued from a lamp on a huge and littered table at the opposite end. At first George glanced vainly about, seeking the famous man. "Step over here, Morton." There was no denying that voice. It came from a deep chair whose back was turned to the light. It sent to George's heart his first touch of fear. He walked carefully across the rugs and around the table until he faced the figure in the chair. He wanted to get rid of his cap. He couldn't resist the temptation to pull at it; and only grooms and stable boys tortured caps.